American Sassenach
by Amalia Fulghum
Summary: Chapter 10 up
1. Chapter 1

Fan Fic (Outlander)  
  
I was dead . That horrible sensation was what it was like to die. I had seen the standing stones, and just had to stick my nose in and get a closer look. I was going to take a picture, too, with my newly bought 35mm camera. I had hesitated, hearing a faint buzzing sound, probably a beehive somewhere in the crevices of the rocks, but ignored it and pursued what I thought was a great photo opportunity. Yeah, right. I had felt the sickening crawl in my skin and it overtook me; it felt like I was being pulled into something, or falling into it. I had promptly dropped the camera and "blacked out". I say "blacked out" only because there is no other way to explain it. It was as if I passed out, but I was aware of myself to a certain point. It was utter chaos in my mind, yet a current slowly and calmly pulling me to....somewhere. Every feeling and emotion contradicted itself. Well, whatever happened, now I was dead, and I didn't have to worry about anything anymore. But my left foot had the most annoying itch on the bottom; my former thought that I was dead slowly deteriorated as the feeling came back to my whole body. It was more comfortable when I was dead, I reflected sourly. I opened my eyes cautiously to find myself staring at a dreary, grey Scottish sky.  
  
I had been in Scotland on a school trip; more specifically, on a trip with my A.P. Euro class. We would be leaving Scotland in three days, to go to yet another European country and visit yet another historical site or museum. Although I was the youngest in the class of sophomores, fifteen, I had the best grades. I was very interested in history, and I planned to be a historian or archaeologist when I was grown up, but the droning teachers and robot-like tour guides always seemed to make it as boring as possible. The teachers! I thought, horrified, and bolted into an upright position. The sudden movement jolted my already sore head, and I clutched it in pain. But my thoughts were elsewhere; the teachers would be furious at me for holding everyone up, or maybe because they were scared that I was lost or kidnapped by pirates or some other wild thing adults always manage to think up. I wondered how long I had been unconcious; it could have been minutes, hours, or even days. I had no recollection of falling down the hill, but that must have been what had happened, or why would I be at the bottom? I stood up and swayed a little bit; it looked as if I would fall, but I got a hold of a bush and steadied myself. I looked at the wood, only a few yards away, and forced myself to think.  
  
I had the most horrible sense of direction in the world, but I thought if I could get to the side I had climbed up, I could find my way to the inn we were staying at. So all I had to do was climb over the hill and - I stopped myself. The last thing I wanted to do was to go near the stones again. I had the feeling that they had something to do with whatever I had felt. So, I'll just go around the hill and meet them at the bus, I thought, and stumbled toward the forest. That was when I ran into some trouble. I was, I thought, half-way around the hill. But as I gained some sense, I looked more closely at the edge of the wood I was following. I had seen it before, but now it was....different. It seemed younger, healthier, and more alive than when I had last saw it. I frowned, getting the uneasy feeling that I wasn't where I thought I was.  
  
"Hello?" came a voice from behind me, and I jumped. I whipped around, stifling a scream, and looked at who had startled me. I was about to say something rude about sneaking up on people when I noticed the man's clothing. He was wearing a deep, sapphire-blue coat and black pants; but they weren't ordinary pants. The came to the middle of his shin and stopped, followed by stockings and ending in shoes with...pewter buckles? His dark hair was long, tied back with a leather thong. On his face was a slightly confused expression, his quizzical eyes looking me up and down. Even though it seemed at first that he was the one wearing strange clothing, I got the feeling that I was the weird one. Our evaluations of each other were interrupted by a shout.  
  
"You there," came a British coice from behind the man in front of me. I saw the him stiffen. "Hey, you," said the voice again, closer than before. The man's eyes scanned the ground in front of him and he relaxed, deciding what to do. He turned around swiftly, in the process shoving me sideways behind a tree. My equilibrium still distorted, I tripped clumsily and fell down. I frowned and was about to say something about how he couldn't get any more rude, but a warning gesture behind his back made me realize that the owner of the British voice probably wouldn't be as nice as he was. I crawled a bit further into the forest and stayed there in a crouched position, barely breathing.  
  
"Yes, sir?" the man said politely, though I saw that his body was still tense.  
  
"Oh, 'scuse me, sir, I just thought I 'eard you talking with someone," answered a Cockney voice, the one I had heard.  
  
"Oh, no, I just thought I heard someone over near the edge of the wood, but it was nothing," explained the man. I noticed that, while his speech didn't sound English, it wasn't quite Scottish either. He spoke like a Scot, but his voice was more accented with French. The next thing I heard the Englishman say jerked me out of my thoughts.  
  
"Well, per'aps I should 'ave a peek, jus' to make sure," said the man, in a bored voice. I heard a shuffling sound as the Englishman came into view. Although I was well hidden behind a tree, if he looked closer, he would most definitely be able to see me. I watched, horrified, as the man walked toward me, as if in slow-motion.  
  
"Sir, I really do not believe that will be necessary," said a testy voice behind the shoulder of the Englishman. "I searched all around there, and there was no trace of anyone. It was probably just an animal," said the Scottish/French man. The Englishman laughed shortly, without humor.  
  
"Well, I think I should," he said, the drawling voice rising a bit. I couldn't see his face, but I could see the Scottish/French man; his expression was no longer the good-natured, kind one I had seen only minutes before. Now it was drawn, and possibly the furthest from "kind" as it could be. The Englishman put a hand to the pistols at his side, but the other man was faster. He had pulled some sort of knife from his stocking and shoved it into his opposer's middle. The Englishman convulsed, and almost immediately dropped to the ground. I let out a half-strangled gasp; I had been holding my breath, and now let it out shakily. The Scottish/French man turned and leaned against a tree. It started to rain then, and I thought there couldn't possibly be another thing that could go wrong. I was beginning to get the feeling that I had been transported to another time. This obviously wasn't a movie, or any other thing modern. This was real; I had just witnessed someone killed, and the fact rattled me thouroughly. The man ignored me, behaving as if he didn't know I was there, though I knew he did. He whistled loudly and a moment later a horse trotted up to him.  
  
"You can come out now, if you wish," he said casually, not talking to the animal. Slowly, I got up and stepped out of my hiding place. The man turned around to face me, and caught a look of my appearance. He stared at me and blinked a few times, as if he didn't believe what his eyes were showing him. He shook his head and turned around again to adjust the saddle on the horses back. Turning around yet again, this time with an air of decision, he looked me straight in the eye.  
  
"I think...yes, I must take you to Milord," he said, as though to himself. He got into a position to boost me onto the horse, but I made no move to come closer to him. He raised an eyebrow, as if asking if I had heard him or not.  
  
"You think, that after seeing you kill someone, that I am going to just say, 'Okey dokey,' and let you take me away somewhere on a horse?" I inquired, putting my hands on my hips. The man nodded, grinning. "I, but, I don't even know who you are! You could be, like, an axe murderer!" I spluttered.  
  
"My name is Fergus," he replied. "I only want to take you to a friend. He will know what to do about your obviously troubled situation." I glared at him.  
  
"Oh really?" I said, trying to control myself. "And what would you know about my situation? I only met you five minutes ago, you don't know anything about me!"  
  
"Look, chere," He said practically. I noticed that he called me chere, making me still more confused about where he was from. "All I know is that you are dressed in strange clothes, your speech is different than I've ever heard, and you look to be only a child," he finished, looking me up and down again. I thought about what he said. It was true about my clothing. I tried to think of another explanation to what had happened, but everything pointed to me somehow travelling back in time. But that was impossible! I thought, mentally shaking myself. Come on, Frankie, I coached myself. Get a hold of yourself. This isn't Star Trek, you know. But, the Englishman was also wearing the strange clothes that I had only seen in history books, in the safety of a classroom. Now, it was brutally real. I had seen someone murdered, so it wasn't a re-enactment. I wasn't dreaming, the fat rain drops splashing down and chilling me to the bone proved that. And if I had, in fact, travelled back in time, of course my speech would be strange. The United States might not have even existed yet! As that fact hit me, the fact that my home didn't exist, that I didn't exist, I swallowed convulsively. I thought of my whole world, disappeared. I saw stars in front of my eyes.  
  
The last thing I heard before everything went black was, "Chere? Are you all...?" Then I fell into the darkness. 


	2. Chapter 2

I woke up on a horse, in front of the man in the blue coat, a city looming up over the hill we were climbing. I also noticed that my legs were chafing like I had never felt before.  
  
"How..." I started, then stopped. My voice was hoarse and croaky from disuse and I cleared it. I tried again. "How long have I been out?"  
  
"Out?" said the man puzzled. "I do not know what you mean by 'out', but you were unconscious for almost a day and a half." He had a sort of smug tone that made me feel ridiculously embarrassed about being unconscious.  
  
"Oh, well, excuuuse me," I said haughtily. I caught myself and forced my voice to lose the sarcastic tone. "Where exactly are you taking me? And if you think 'I'm taking you to Milord' explains it, you've got another thing coming," I warned. He chuckled.  
  
"Well, lass," he said, using that odd Scottish-French way of speaking," the city you see before you is Edinburgh." I started. No way this was Edinburgh! I thought. Edinburgh was one of the largest cities in Scotland, and this looked like- then I stopped, feeling the color drain out of my face. It looks like a booming city from the 1700s, said a taunting voice in the back of my head. I gulped.  
  
"What's the date today?" I inquired. The answer that came was completely confused.  
  
"The date? What a strange thing to ask...the date is April 14, the year of our Lord seventeen hundred and sixty eight." My breath caught in my throat and I thought I would fall off the horse. Fergus steadied me.  
  
"Chere! What is wrong?" he asked, concered. "Are you feeling faint again? Shall we stop?" I shook my head and motioned him to go on. I was right! Somehow, someway, I had gone back in time. I calmed myself and tried to think logically. A part of me wanted it to be real. I had always thought I belonged in a different time. I hated computers, and loved everything about history. If I was right, then history had abruptly become the present, and my wish had come true. Another part of me, the logical part, told me that this couldn't possibly be real. I was dreaming, one could not go back into the past. But it was real. The man riding behind me on the horse, he was real, and he was also completely honest when he told me the date. He believed that it was 1768. I thought about how I could have possibly gone back in time. Once again, the only explanation I could think of was that I had stepped into some sort of time portal near the standing stones. Thinking of the standing stones made me remember what I had experienced after I stepped between the two broken stones. I shied away from the memory and forced myself to think into the future. I would have to think of some sort of explanation to tell "Milord", whoever he was. I mean, I couldn't just waltz up and say, Hi, my name is Frankie Moore, and I'm from the year 2002. I was silent for a while, thinking everything over.  
  
"Here, chere, you should put this on," said Fergus, a few minutes later. My thighs were killing me, and I simply could not stand being on that horse anymore, so I was walking beside it. "I am not sure what everyone's reaction to you would be." I nodded and took the proferred cloak, wrapping it around my shoulders, heart skipping a beat. This was a real cloak, made and worn in 1768. I felt a heavy drop on my cheek and grimaced. It was raining again. I pulled the hood over my head and followed Fergus to the front of a shady looking building.  
  
"Where are we?" I asked, looking at him suspiciously.  
  
"At Milord's apartment," he replied, tying the horse up. I noticed that he was avoiding looking at me. I narrowed my eyes, but squared my shoulders and prepared myself for whatever was inside. I wasn't exactly sure where we were going, but it didn't look particularly inviting.  
  
I followed Fergus up to the door and stood behind him as he knocked. A woman answered the door and Fergus engaged her in a short French conversation.  
  
Finally, he turned back to me. "Come, chere, I will take you to milord." 


	3. Chapter 3

I followed Fergus up the stairs, walking barely a foot behind him. Strange women kept poking their heads out of doors as we passed through the seemingly endless hallway. I gawked at one, who crossed in front of us to go down the stairs. She was wearing a green gown, a frilly pettycoat peeking out from the bottom, the bodice suggestively low-cut. She winked, flirting, at Fergus, and he paused momentarily to bow. I rolled my eyes involuntarily and pushed him slightly. He looked at me and grinned. I smiled at him sarcastically, and he moved on down the hall. I glanced at the receding back of the woman, and was struck with a sudden, horrible thought. I looked back at the ladies returning to their rooms, all dressed in clothing that left me with no doubt of their profession.  
  
"Oh my GOD!" I shrieked, stopping abruptly. Fergus whirled around, dagger in hand, ready to protect me from whatever had harmed me. In any other state of mind, I would have found this funny, but presently, I was feeling shocked and violated. He stood up, a quizzical expression on his face.  
  
"What is it, chere?" he asked, frowing. He looked around. "Did you see a spider, or some-" I cut him off angrily. "I CANNOT believe you brought me into, um, ah.....a BROTHEL!" I said, whispering the last word fiercely. I hugged the cloak to me self- consciously as Fergus chuckled.  
  
"Do not be afraid, chere," he said semi-seriously, patting my shoulder. Though there was enough light for me to see his square teeth bared in a malicious grin. I felt my cheeks redden slightly, and I glared at him.  
  
"Can we please get on to this 'Milord'?" I said, slightly annoyed. "I'd like to get back to...where I'm staying," I ended, mentally kicking myself for almost giving it away. I had a feeling I wouldn't be looked on as sane if I told everyone I was from over two hundred years in the future. After a suspicious look from my escort, we began the journey down the never-ending hall once more.  
  
  
  
After a few more minutes, turns, and going up stairs, we arrived finally at what appeared to be Milord's room. I couldn't see the difference in this one from all the others, but Fergus seemed to know where he was going, so I just kept my mouth shut and followed him. He knocked four times on the door, and stood back, arms crossed importantly in front of him. I was squirming at the thought that maybe I had been found by the servant of a mobster, when the door swung open. All I could see was darkness. I heard a raspy sound, like sandpaper on wood. Beard stubble, I thought formidably.  
  
"Wha' is it, Fergus?" came a croaky voice inside. I tried my best to blend in to the wall behind me, though I wasn't doing a very good job.  
  
"I have brought someone in distress to you, milord," began Fergus. He paused, as though waiting for approval. I heard the raspy noise again and a deep sigh.  
  
"All right," was the reply. It sounded as though the owner had resigned to the fact that he would not get any more sleep tonight. "Come in then." 


	4. Chapter 4

At Fergus's insistence, I sat in a fairly expensive-looking rocking chair next to the fire. I sipped the tea thoughtfully provided by a woman I was introduced to as 'Madame Jeanne', the owner of the establishment, and was covered in a quilt thrown over me by Fergus. I had discarded the borrowed cloak, and it sat dripping on a coat rack behind the door. I squirmed uncomfortably as I listened to 'milord' getting ready in what I assumed was the privy closet. I had still not been introduced to this mysterious Milord (he had been in the closet for about fifteen minutes, and was in there when we entered the room), and he hadn't seen me nor my strange clothes yet. I felt a bit squeamish thinking about it. I couldn't think of any logical way to explain my jeans, t-shirt, and Converse sneakers. He had probably never seen anything like them before, would pronounce me a 'witch' or something of that sort, and have me sent to an orphanage, or worse, prison. I ironed a part in the quilt with my nervous fingers and drained the last of the tea. I glanced at Fergus, who was sitting in the corner, looking back at me. He reminded me of the wolf in those old Loony Toons cartoons, the one who whistled at pretty girls and swung a pocket watch, except more handsome and charming. He grinned encouragingly at me, and I thought he must have seen the worry in my expression. I wrinkled my nose and crossed my eyes at him, and he laughed. He got up and crossed the room. He pulled the stool out from under my feet, and they dropped noisily to the floor. I scowled at him, tucking my legs neatly underneath me. He sat down on it, facing me, and spoke.  
  
"You need not be afraid of milord," he said pointedly. I raised an eyebrow.  
  
"Oh really?" I said sarcastically. "Well, I've gotta tell you, the impression you've all made on me so far is that of a shady mobster," I said rudely, "and that thought doesn't exactly give me a warm fuzzy feeling in my heart, you know?" He stared at me for a few moments, eyes open wide, then laughed surprisedly.  
  
"A mobster? Me?" he said innocently. "Surely you are joking, chere." I smiled sardonically.  
  
"You? Nah," I said, waving the thought away as though it were ridiculous. "You're more of a pirate." This only made him laugh more. He was cut off by the sudden appearance of milord himself.  
  
I nearly dropped the teacup at this sudden apparition. He was huge. His hair was a flaming red-orange color, his eyes as blue as the afternoon sky. He had a handsome face, sharp nose almost too long for his face, and a wide mouth that looked accustomed to smiling, though there were lines of grief etched around it. His eyes were set on high cheekbones that gave them a slanted look. He was extremely tall, I thought, definitely over six feet. He wore breeches similar to those that Fergus wore, only a tan leather color, stockings, and a white shirt. He slid his broad shoulders into a deep blue coat and buttoned it professionally. The blue color set his hair off in a fierce way, and I thought no one would be stupid enough to ever cross him. He walked over to where Fergus and I were sitting, and smiled.  
  
"I'm pleased to meet ye?" he said kindly, putting his hand out in a friendly manner. I looked at it for a few seconds, then scrambled up and shook it, clutching the quilt around me. His hand was big and warm, and mine so small. Fergus stood up beside me and put a hand on my shoulder. I was almost as tall as he was, though he seemed much bigger.  
  
"I'm Frankie," I said meekly, pulling the blanket even closer to me. I smacked myself mentally. Great job, Frankie, use your nickname. "Francine Moore." He smiled again. Fergus pulled lightly on the quilt. I looked at him. Take the quilt off, said his eyes impatiently. No! I argued.  
  
"My name is Alexander Malcolm, lass," said the red-headed man in front of me. My head jerked back to face him. "I'm a printer here in Edinburgh. I-"  
  
"Er, milord? If I may interrupt?" said Fergus politely. Malcolm nodded curiously. With a glance at me, Fergus put an arm over Malcolm's shoulders and walked to the other end of the room. They engaged in a heated conversation, with incredulous glances at me. I shuffled my feet uncomfortably. Finally, they came back.  
  
"Now, lass," began Malcolm. "I dinna mean to sound indecent, but if ye please, would ye drop the quilt for a moment?" I stared at him with wide eyes, then promptly switched into acting mode.  
  
"But, ah, Mr. Malcolm," I said, pouting. "It's so cold in here. You would have me freeze?" I smiled as prettily as I could, though the sweetness in my own voice was making me sick. Unfortunately, Malcolm was having none of it.  
  
"Lass, do I look stupid?" he said bluntly. I felt my cheeks turn pink. I shook my head. We all stood there for a few uncomfortable moments, me looking at the floor. I felt a hand on my shoulder. Malcolm spoke again, this time softly.  
  
"I promise ye this, Ms. Moore," he said quietly. "I will not hurt you. You can trust me, with your life. And I'm a man of my word." I didn't think he was lying, either, but I could NOT tell him this. I took a deep breath.  
  
"No offense, Mr. Malcolm, I'm sure you are a trustworthy man," I said, as sincerely as I could, "but, correct me if I'm wrong, aren't we in a brothel? And if so, that fact does not move me to shake your hand and say we're good friends." I looked up at him inquiringly. His neck turned slightly red, but there was no change in his expression. He rubbed his hand over his face.  
  
"Aye, I s'pose we are," he muttered tiredly. I guessed waking up to deal with a sarcastic fifteen-year-old girl was not something anyone, much less a reasonable person, would want to do. I wrinkled my nose and, if possible, pulled the quilt even tighter around my shoulders. I was becoming more than a little warm, but I felt extremely uncomfortable at the thought of dropping the blanket, even though I was fully dressed. Malcolm pulled a watch out of his pocket, sighed, then turned to Fergus.  
  
"I'll be off to the print shop now," he said, straightening his coat. He shot a half-irritated, half-amused glance at me. "Try to get something out of the wee wench there. And have Jeanne make her a new gown. Whatever she is wearing under that, I gather it's not proper for public. For now, she can wear one of the girls' dresses. Good morn' to ye, miss," he said, bowing ironically to me. He took two large steps to the door and was gone. I slumped in the rocking chair and closed my eyes.  
  
"You should know," I heard Fergus's voice. "Milord is not lying. He is a most trustworthy man. You would not find anyone so honorable as him, in all of Scotland." I opened my eyes and narrowed them at the chestnut ones staring at me.  
  
"Oh, then, coming from you, I'm sure it's true," I said testily, and wrinkled my nose. He chuckled softly.  
  
"Aye, you've got me there," he said, mixing Scots into his formal accent. "I'm nothing but a dirty scoundrel, no? But," he said, square white teeth bared in a grin, "dirty or not, I am a loyal one. And I will follow milord's orders. Now that he's gone, would you take off that quilt?" he said. My jaw dropped, scandalized. His eyes flew open with the realization of what he had said.  
  
"Oh, no, chere! That is not what I meant!" he said hurredly. "I only-, well, what I mean is, ah-" I giggled and nodded.  
  
"Don't worry," I said seriously, letting go of the corners of the blanket. "I know what you meant." Face flaming and eyes averted as though I were indecent, he crossed the room and went into the hall. A few moments later, a small blonde woman came into the room carrying a thick unlit candle, something draped over her arm, and two small objects that I recognized to be pieces of flint and stone. She looked to be at least three years older than me, perhaps a few inches shorter, but around the same size. She glanced hesitantly at me, eyes scanning my strange clothing, but covered it up. She bobbed a short curtsy to me and smiled warmly.  
  
"Please to meet ye, miss," she said shyly. "Master Fra-, ah, Malcolm, asked that I measure you and have a gown made. I'm Mary," she introduced herself. I looked at her, uncertain, for a few moments, then smiled. I ducked my head, not knowing how to curtsy in Levis.  
  
"I'm Francine," I said, being as friendly as I could. "Frankie, if you will." She beamed at me and took my hand.  
  
"Let's get ye measured then, shall we?" she said kindly, and led me out of the room and down the hall. She pulled me into a small room and closed the door. I peered around and saw an assortment of seamstress dummies wrapped in half-made dresses and tape measures. Mary crossed the room, lay the dress over a dummy's head, and set the candle on a dresser. She leaned over and struck the two stones together as closely to the candle as she could get her hand. Almost immediately, a spark hopped onto the wick and the room was glowing. Face illuminated by candlelight, she grinned at me.  
  
"I'd open the windows to let the light in, but this side of the building faces the street," she confided, eyes twinkling. "Wouldn't want your private pairts exposed tae the neighborhood, now would we?" I snorted, and she winked at me.  
  
"Now, then," she said, patting around the room. She settled on a long floppy measure and stood back to survey me, hands on hips. She wrinkled her nose shrewdly and crooked a finger at me. "Come here." 


	5. Chapter 5

After forty-five minutes of being poked and prodded, spun around and posed like a doll, I collapsed in an enormous armchair in a corner of the small sewing room.  
  
"Phew!" said Mary exuberantly, wiping her brow. She tossed the tape measure on a dresser and leaned against the wall, grinning at me. "Aye, it's hard work, lassie, but ye'll look bonny in the end. The blue sets off your eyes. Though it'd look better if ye'd wear a corset," she added, and frowned poutingly. I shook my head, smiling. Corsets would cost a lot of money, I thought, and seeing as I meant to be out of there as soon as possible, I didn't want the gown to be too expensive. Besides, my waist was somewhere around twenty eight inches, and wearing a corset would reduce it by almost seven. Didn't sound too comfortable. Women were portrayed as weak, fainting all the time, it wasn't hard to see why. Mary sighed remorsefully, but smiled anyway. "Nae worry, I'll put some whale-bone stays from one of my auld ones, and it'll look just fine. Ye've got quite a curvy figure already, for a lass of only fifteen," she added wryly, winking at me. I turned several different shades of red and covered the wide swell of hips, and she turned away laughing. Once the embarrassment had passed, I realized she was looking for something.  
  
"Did you lose something?" I asked, getting up to peer over her shoulder.  
  
"Och, just one of my gowns for ye to wear while I'm makin' this one," she replied, walking over to dig through the pile of dark blue cloth that was to be my first (and only, I reminded myself firmly) gown. I remembered the green homespun she had had draped over her arm when she retrieved me from Malcolm's room. She had brought it with her, into this room, walked in and set it...  
  
"On the dummy!" I said triumphantly, hopping over trunks to get to a dressmaker's dummy near the door. She came up next to me as I took the dress off carefully. I looked down at her, pleased. She avoided my gaze, though, and played with a pin stuck in the dummy. I looked at her suspiciously.  
  
"What," I said, taking a tiny step sideways, clutching the gown to my stomach.  
  
"Well," she began sweetly, staring me in the eye. She took the gown from me and I shuffled my feet uncomfortably. "This perticuler dress...well, 'twas not made 'specially for you, and was made to be worn, with a corset," she said slowly, watching my face for a reaction. I looked down at the folds of green cloth and watched as she sneakily pulled an off-white-colored corset from the depths of them. I glared back at her, but let no emotion into my face. People had always told me I had an uncanny ability to hide my feelings, making me an extremely good actress, and liar. I smiled blandly.  
  
"Well, I suppose I could wear one, then, just until my gown's done," I said, putting a slightly edgy emphasis on the word 'just'. I would cooperate; but only as much as I had to. She cocked her head respectfully; an agreement, then. She stepped lightly over to the large armchair and deposited the contents of her arms into it. She took a deep breath and let it out, clapping her hands together.  
  
"Weel, then, I s'pose ye'd like to get dressed," she said awkwardly, and walked toward the door. Hand on the doorknob, she looked back at me. "I'll be back shortly, in five minutes let's say? To help ye with your laces," and with that, she was gone. I buried my face in my hands. What had I gotten myself into? I thought hopelessly. All for a stupid picture. I had gotten plenty of Stonehenge, why did I have to get even one of this tiny replica? Because Frankie, said an ironic voice in my mind. You're a photographer, a camera woman. It's what you do. I smiled ruefully. Oh well. No use crying over spilled milk, right? Besides, I was also a historian, archaeologist. I had dreamed about this, over and over again, going back in time, living when they wore pettycoats and life was still simple. How many people could say their dreams had come true? I sighed and walked over to the chair, unbuttoning my pants. I felt a small thrill at the thought of wearing an authentic eighteenth century gown. After fully undressing, at least to the underwear, (I felt slightly uncomfortable at going commando, so I left on my green underwear with Kermit the frog's face on the front, hoping Mary wouldn't see it and think me completely insane) I slipped into a cotton garment, what I assumed was a shift. Looking around the room, I had seen other shifts decked out in frills and bows, and I was grateful Mary had the presence of mind and perception to give me one that was relatively plain. I picked up the corset, feeling a bit panicky. I didn't know why, but I was slightly afraid of the thing. It looked like a medieval torture device. It felt hard in some places, and I didn't see anyway to put it on. The laces were slackened, not done up all the way, but could most definitely not be pulled over my head or backside. Upon closer inspection, I saw that there was a flap of cloth over a row of buttons near the left side of the laces. I sighed with relief at this, and undid all the buttons, but was still reluctant to put it on. Firmly stuffing down any instinctive protests, I wrapped the strange device around me, covering my entire abdomen and ribs. I buttoned myself in awkwardly and paused, my breathing slightly fast from the effort. This was bloody hard work, I thought indignantly to myself. Just to get dressed! I was interrupted in my thoughts by a light tap on the door. A muffled voice came through the thick wood.  
  
"It's me," said Mary, poking her head it. "Oh, good, ye've got your corset on," she said pleasantly, coming all the way in. She shut the door and walked over to me, looking extremely pleased. "Turned around, I'll lace ye up." I complied, holding my arms self-consciously over my stomach. "Now, I can tell ye're not accustomed to wearin' these, though I dinna ken of any place that has ladies that dinna wear them, but I'll no tie ye up too tight," she told me matter-of-factly.  
  
"Oh, well how kind of you," I said cynically, but she laughed, and yanked on the strings that were to hold in my supposedly overflowing gut. Beats the hell out of sucking it in, I guess, I thought facetiously. When she was done, I let out a breath. It actually wasn't that bad. Mary had done a good job of not doing them so tightly, and I didn't feel like I was going to faint, which is what I expected. I turned to look at her, and she lifted an eyebrow expectantly.  
  
"Well?" she said, crossing her arms. I sighed.  
  
"It's not that bad," I admitted. She grinned enormously.  
  
"Och, now, of caerse it's no," she said, clucking her tongue depreciatively. She turned me around again. "Hand me that dress, and I'll make ye a proper lady, I will."  
  
  
  
  
  
I looked in the mirror, twisting my hips so that the long skirt and pettycoats swished fashionably on the floor. I saw Mary standing in the background and turned to her. She grinned proudly.  
  
"A verra bonny lady ye make, Francine," she said admiringly. Then, with a smirk, she added, "after ye take off those odd breeks of course." I grinned at her and turned around again, smoothing the fabric on my stomach. To my delight and relief, Mary had gotten me a relatively plain gown from her collection. It was dark green homespun, three-quarter sleeves with slightly frilly white cotton cuffs, made to wear with a corset and two petticoats. The neckline was a bit lower than I would have chosen, I thought with a wry quirk of the mouth. But I could deal. As my eyes moved up, I caught a sight of my head and grimaced. What at first looked like dark circles around my dark blue eyes, upon closer examination, turned out to be the remains of the mascara I had worn the day I went through the stones. I made a face when I saw my hair. The usually thick and pretty chestnut brown locks were sticking in odd directions and looked extremely dirty. I looked at Mary with a horrified expression on my face. She giggled, but kept a straight face and came up behind me, peering interestedly into the mirror.  
  
"Aye, perhaps ye'd like to fix yerself up a bit?" she said, raising an eyebrow. I narrowed my eyes and nodded. "Come, then." She took my hand and led me out of the room, also taking the candle and a pair of dark colored things. I followed her to another room, only a few doors down from the sewing one. She opened the door and I was shocked to find that we were back in Alexander Malcolm's private apartment. Just more evidence of my total lack of a sense of direction, I thought, shaking my head. Mary left me at the entrance and went to add wood to the fire, which was almost smoldering. She stood up, wiping her hands on her skirt, and grinned at me.  
  
"It's not the light, ye can open the windows for that, but it's a bit cold," she explained, walking toward the door. Before exiting, she turned back, remembering something. "I'll just be gettin' ye the proper supplies to make yerself up." And she was gone. I collapsed in the large armchair, suddenly exhausted. I thought about the people back at the inn, in 2002. Would they be worried about me? Would time still be going on there? Would they even miss me at all? I mean, I was pretty quiet back there, I never really liked school, except for history class itself. And even then, I was happy because I imagined myself there. Well, actually, it's here, now, I thought drowsily. The last four days weighed heavily on my teenage body, and my endurance was nearing its limit. My eyelids seemed to grow heavier and heavier, soon it was impossible to keep them open. I curled myself up as comfortably as I could, and fell into a blissful, dreamless slumber. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Okay, this is a serious change I am putting in affect here. The name of this main character is now 'Francine'. I have spoken. Good day, citizens. **  
  
I woke up in a state of complete confusion, arms flailing against the cold manacles that had been put on me. I had been chained, in a dungeon, for hours and days. Mr. Malcolm had been there; he walked back and forth in front of me, then left. Mary was there, holding a corset and trying to make me wear it. Suddenly, the cuffs turned to cold, dark skeletal hands, the chains to bones. They were cold, so cold, and I struggled to get them off. Instead of becoming weaker though, I felt my strength increasing. I opened my eyes suddenly, and I was back in the room, a watery sun peeking boldly through the curtains. I looked to see who had woken me. It was only Mary. She looked extremely worried.  
  
"Sorry, Miss Francine," she said, her cool hands letting go of my wrists. The manacles in my dream. "I think ye were havin' a wee nightmare," she added, shrugging apologetically. I shook my head, stifling a yawn.  
  
"Eugh...how long was I asleep?" I asked, standing up and stretching. I felt a few pops as I stood up on my tip toes, and groaned blissfully.  
  
"Oh, 'bout an hour, I'd say," she replied, straightening some things on a small vanity near the window. "I brought some things fer yer face, and went back to get a basin with hot water, noticed ye were asleep, thought I'd let ye have a bit of a lie in," she ended, smiling warmly at me. "I hope ye're rested?" I nodded bleakly. "Good. Well, then, there's everything, I've got to get to work, if ye know what I mean." She waggled her eyebrows and I smiled uncomfortably, trying not to think about what she meant. "I'll come back to check on ye in a few hours, and have a girl bring some brunch up for ye." As though on cue, my stomach gave a loud grumble, and Mary giggled. "See ye in a bit." My stomach gurgled again.  
  
"Don't hurry back," I called to the door. I stretched again, rubbing my sides where the corset had pushed into my ribs, then got up curiously to see what she had brought.  
  
I hadn't been expecting Cover Girl or anything; in fact, I had thought the items would have been more primitive. But they were actually very modern. I browsed the tray, looking for something that looked familiar. I picked up a small, pen-shaped piece of something and examined it. I realized it was a stick of kohl, or as my teacher had told us, old-fashioned eyeliner. I put it aside as one of the things safe to use. I turned back to the tray. There were tiny combs that, upon closer examination, rubbed off darkly onto my fingers and appeared to be made of lead. I figured they could be used like mascara, and set it aside with the kohl. There were a few small cups filled with a light peach-colored powder. I put this with the other things. I opened another cup and discovered a deep rusty red powder. I frowned at it for a few moments before I realized it was rouge. I also saw a bottle of light purple liquid. I picked it up, opened it, and sniffed the contents cautiously. If I wasn't mistaken, that was lavender. Shampoo, maybe? I set it with the other things. Suddenly, my stomach grumbled again. I licked my lips meditatively, and winced. They were cut and extremely chapped. I looked around for something on the tray that could be passed for lip stick, gloss, or anything remotely for the lips. I didn't see anything. Then I remembered something. I jumped up, which was a bit difficult with my numerous skirts, and crossed the room, tripping only twice. I snagged up my jeans and searched through the pockets, triumphantly coming up with what I was looking for. The small, blue tube of life-saving Chapstick. I popped off the cap and swiped the stuff gingerly across my blistered lips. I sighed with relief, then winced at the oncoming sting of the medicated lip applicant. I sat myself back down and looked in the mirror. I sighed. This was going to be a big job. I unfolded a ratty washcloth that was sitting on top of a matching towel and dipped it into the steaming basin of water. It was really hot, but not scalding. I wrung it out and pressed it into my face blissfully.  
  
"Ahhhh," I sighed. I took it off after a few moments, face starting to flush, and dipped it in again. This time, I scrubbed my face until it was clean, red, and make-up free. I scrunched my nose up. There was no cold water, nothing to make my face not strawberry-like. I stood up again and crossed to the window. With a small struggle, I thrust open the window and stuck my head into the breeze. I found myself facing a tiny courtyard; the room really wasn't facing the street, then. There was a small tree in the middle and an oval-shaped walkway surrounded it. Beyond the courtyard was another building. After a few minutes, when my cheeks felt icy, I pulled my head back in and sat down at the makeshift vanity. My cheeks were pink and my face pleasantly bare.  
  
"Now let's see," I muttered to myself, looking over my resources. "How can I do this without looking like a whore. No offense," I added, for Mary's sake. I was positive that if I did my usual beauty regimen, I would be looked on as a prostitute, which I wasn't. Therefore, I was going to try that new "natural" look, supposedly "in" for next season's fashion. I was extremely thankful that I never had any use for foundation or concealer, on account of I scrubbed and moisturized the crap out of my skin every morning and night, and had hardly any blemishes. I powdered my face lightly to reduce shine and wiped off the excess. I had no idea what the stuff was, but I would bet my shoes it would clog up my pores and I wanted to use as little as possible. I debated whether or not to use the rouge. It looked a bit more hardcore than your every day blush, and I wasn't sure it would be easy to get off if I accidentally put on too much. But the powder had made my face whiter than normal. I took a "blush brush", ignoring the nagging question of what it was made of, and swept it across the rouge, then blew off any excess at all. I swept it up my cheekbones, praying for it to not make me look like a clown. There had been just enough rouge on the brush to tint my cheeks slightly pink. I set the cup and brush aside happily and moved on. I picked up the small stick of kohl and leaned forward. I drew a light line across the root of my eyelashes, just to make them look fuller. I picked up one of the lead combs and tested it on my upper lashes. It worked. I brushed them until they looked longer and darker, then leaned back to survey the results. Not bad at all. I batted my eyelashes at my reflection. I touched my hair. Ugh. It was completely ratty. Gross. I picked up the hairbrush, looked at the mirror, then set it down again. Definitely had to wash first. Now how was I going to do this? I had a bowl of water, and some lavender smelling stuff. Not exactly Fantastic Sam's. I shrugged and decided to wet the brush, run it through my hair, and repeat the process, saving the lavender for later. After fifteen minutes of this repetitive process, my hair was wet, but untangled. I took the lavender, poured a good-sized puddle in my hand, and ran my hands through my hair. I then ducked my entire head into the basin and scrubbed thoroughly. I groped on the vanity and found the towel. I wrapped it around my hair and flipped it back into a turban, surveying the results in the mirror.  
  
"Joo can doo eet," I told my reflection. Just then there was a knock on the door. I jumped up, barely catching my balance, and crossed to the door. I opened it and there was a small woman that looked about nineteen years old. She bobbed her head and entered the room carrying a tray covered in steaming food. She set it down on a small table near the window and did a quick curtsy. I mimicked her, almost spraining my ankle.  
  
"I'm Beth, miss," she said shyly. I smiled.  
  
"Frankie," I said. We stood there for a few awkward moments, she trying to keep her eyes off my toweled head. Suddenly, she clapped her hands together.  
  
"Well, I'll be leavin' ye to ye're breakfast now," she said, wringing her hands. "If ye need anythin' else, just call oot the door and someone'll help ye." She ducked her head shyly and left the room. I smiled. It was ironic how, here I was intimidating to everyone, but back home they could care less if my name were Frankie or Joe. I sat down at the tiny table, inspecting the food. There was bacon, which looked as though it was drenched in fat, a few pieces of toasted bread that looked slightly burnt, a glass jar holding what must have been marmalade, fried potatoes that looked fattier than the bacon, and sausages smoked beyond repair. It looked delicious. I stuffed my face, suddenly starving. With a shock, I realized that I hadn't had anything to eat for almost three days.  
  
"It's a wonder I'm not dead," I said aloud, shoving a sausage in my mouth. I ate until the corset creaked under pressure from the added weight. I bet I had gained five pounds eating that breakfast. I took my hair out of the towel, and tried a variety of things to dry it. Periodically, I would pick up a piece of bacon or toast and munch on it, waiting for my hair to dry. After forty-five minutes of this, the tray was empty, and the moisture in my hair had completely dissipated. I brushed it out, and it flowed down my back like a dirty river. I sighed. I had no idea how they wore their hair in these times. There were dozens of hairpins on the vanity, supplied by Mary, but I had no idea what to do with them. I had lost my elastic band sometime on the way to Edinburgh, so that wasn't an option. Suddenly, the door crashed open. I jumped up with a yelp. There was an extremely fat, extremely drunk man staggering in the doorway. His eyes swiveled around the room, finally landing on me.  
  
"Where's Jeanne," he whispered, voice scratchy as a cat's claws. He looked at me menacingly. "I said, where's Jeanne? She owes me," he said, taking a step into the room. I cluttered backwards until I reached the wall. The solidness of it should have been comforting, but now I only felt trapped, cornered. He laughed, eyes sliding in and out of focus. "Scared of me, miss? I wouldn't hurt a fly."  
  
"I've heard you really shouldn't get drunk before noon," I told him, trying only to keep him at arm's length. I started edging my way along the wall. I had no idea where I was going, but anywhere was better than a corner. His face twisted into a grimace.  
  
"I'm not drunk!" he roared, lunging at me. I felt a scream rising in my throat, but it got lodged as I launched myself on Malcolm's bed. I rolled across it and landed on the floor, in a slightly crouched stance. The man straightened himself, huffing, and wiped his forehead. He smiled stupidly.  
  
"I suppose I could take it from you," he said, words slurring slightly. He swayed, and I thought he might be close to passing out. If I could just keep him off me while he was still conscious. "Come, come, my sweet apple pie." I couldn't help making a face.  
  
"Look, buddy, I don't know who you think you are, or I am," I said, getting caught up in my indignance. "But you are not coming any closer to me than you are at this moment, or you will be sorry." He looked at me quizzically for a moment, as though I had spoken another language. Then I realized, I had spoken another language. I ran my tongue along the inside of my cheek, dazed. What had I just said? What did I mean to say? I shook my head slightly. Things were fuzzy around the edges of my vision.  
  
"Wot?" said the drunk man. I started, remembering that I was being assaulted. He scrunched his face at me. "Wot does 'at mean? I don't speak French or whatever you just said." French. Had I said something in French? I didn't know any French. My head was starting to pound.  
  
"It's not French," I said slowly. I just said something in English right? I hope. I looked at the man for confirmation. He looked lost.  
  
"Stop talkin' like that," he said. He put a hand up to his head, like I was giving him a headache. I bit my lip, feeling very confused. What was going on? I tried to concentrate. I cleared my throat.  
  
"It's not French," I said, louder. My head was becoming clearer, and I realized that I had just come dangerously close to passing out which, with a drunk and unstable man in the room, would not have been a good thing. He looked at me, eyes bloodshot and relieved.  
  
"There," he said tiredly. "There's English." I frowned, resuming my edge toward the door. He seemed to remember what his business had been before I had spoken in German. For, German it had surely been. In school, just to be contrary and different, I had passed right over Spanish and French, to German. There was only one teacher, and in my third year the class was canceled and made a club, but I was sufficiently learned so that I could speak it on call. I thought it extremely strange that I had just burst out with it like that, but oh well. I remained in the crouched position as I crept my way around the room.  
  
"Come, now," he said, smiling. I must have looked horrified at the slimy and green teeth he was showing, because he laughed. "Just a quick one. I'll be out of your hair in no time, sweetheart." I said something extremely profane under my breath involving his mother, and he laughed again, more cruelly than before.  
  
"That's no way for a lady to talk," he said. In a flash, he leapt forward and caught hold of my arm. He had been closer than I thought. I squeaked and grabbed the closest thing to me. He made for whatever I had in my hand, but I was defter, and not drunk. I yanked it out of his reach, brought it over my head and down onto his. His eyes rolled to the back of his head and he went down with a crash. Slowly, I looked at the object in my hand. Candlestick. I was suddenly aware of footsteps growing louder. Suddenly, four people appeared in the doorway. I looked at them, feeling extremely stoned. I watched as Fergus came over to me, pried the candlestick out of my hand, and held me close.  
  
"Chere, are you all right?" I heard him ask. It was like we were on opposite ends of a field covered in fog. I nodded slowly. I was taken out of Fergus's arms and, though she was smaller than I was, into Mary's.  
  
"Christ, Miss Francine," she sobbed. Her voice echoed through my head. It was like my brain was gone, and there was just a cavernous space left. Like a gust of wind, my hearing came back and everything was normal. I blinked a few times.  
  
"I apologize, Madamoiselle," said Madame Jeanne, stepping forward. "This man is drunk."  
  
"Yeah, no shit," I murmured under my breath, staring at the lump on the floor. She didn't hear me.  
  
"He should have never gotten up here," she went on, lifting her chin slightly. She turned to Fergus, looking slightly worried. "Master Fraser will not be angry for this?" she asked, voice lowered. I pretended not to hear her. Who was Master Fraser? I thought, confused. A memory popped into my head. "Master Fra-, ah, Malcolm, asked that I measure you and have a gown made," I heard Mary's voice. Why had he introduced himself as Malcolm? I had no idea, but it made me nervous.  
  
"I do not believe so, Madame," replied Fergus. "It was, after all, not your fault. Milord will understand." They turned back to me.  
  
"You are not hurt, Francine?" he asked. I shook my head.  
  
"No, but I sure got the crap scared out of me," I told him. I shivered. "And call me Frankie please."  
  
"Right, Frankie," he said, trying the name out. I giggled nervously, still a bit shaken. With his accent, he pronounced it 'Fran-key'. He clapped his hands together. "Well, Milord will be back quite a bit later, so Fran-key, you may just stay here, I believe Mary would love to keep you company." He raised an eyebrow at her. She seemed to be in shock, and could only nod her head yes. Distantly, I heard the clock ringing. Twelve o' clock. "Well, then, I have business to attend to," he concluded, straightening.  
  
"As do I," said Madame Jeanne. I nodded.  
  
"I'll be fine," I told them.  
  
"Bruno?" said Madame Jeanne, casting an inquiring look over her shoulder. I remembered seeing four figures in the doorway, and the last one stepped forward dutifully. He was a huge man, and I believed whole-heartedly that if he lived in the twenty-first century, his occupation could be none other than that of a bouncer.  
  
"Yes, Madame," he said, voice deep as a bear, which animal he resembled greatly.  
  
"Please dispose of this," she said, nostrils pinched, waving a hand at the prostrate form on the floor. "The alley over there will do nicely, I think," she added, a bit cruelly. I made a mental note never to get on this lady's bad side. Alley ways behind brothels were not among my ideal locations of places to visit in Scotland. Bruno gathered up the limp body as easily as though it were trash that needed to be taken out, and was gone. Fergus bowed to me and Mary, and Madame Jeanne dropped a quick curtsey. And then they too were gone. I collapse into the big armchair, closing my eyes, and Mary leaned against the wall.  
  
"Miss Frankie, I'm so sorry," she whispered. My eyes popped open.  
  
"What are you talking about, Mary?" I said, confused. She smiled weakly.  
  
"I was supposed to watch after ye," she said, biting her lip. "It's my fault that man got up here. I should've been watching." I shook my head.  
  
"It was NOT your fault Mary," I said with conviction. She started to protest, but I stopped her. "No, no buts about it. It's in the past. Now, fix my hair, will ya? I have no idea how to use these thingies." I got up and sat on the vanity seat. Mary came over, smiling, and started trying to make something out of the thick mop that was my hair. 


	7. Chapter 7

That bed might as well have been Heaven, for all I slept like the dead. I had no nightmares, no dreams, no interruptions. I woke calmly to the slightly annoying prod of Fergus, feeling extremely refreshed.  
  
"What time is it?" I asked through a yawn. Fergus gave me a bewildered look, and chose to ignore me. "WHAT TIME IS IT," I said, pronouncing every word.  
  
"It is eight o' clock, chere," he said quietly, giving me that wolfy grin. He looked extremely happy about something. I noticed dimly that he had his cloak bundled up underneath his arm.  
  
"Eight?" I asked incredulously. "EIGHT? Why the hell did you wake me up?" I was extremely irritated. Four hours of sleep? Why thank you, Fergus. You are just kindness itself.  
  
"In the morning," he said defensively. My eyebrows shot up to my hairline. Oh. "We must go. We have gotten into a spot of trouble." I raised an eyebrow.  
  
"What's all this 'we' stuff, eh?" I asked. "I am not part of your little, gang, or whatever the hell you guys are. All I want to do is get home, as fast as possible. So, YOU leave, and I'll hitch a ride back, thank you." I looked at him. What was that, that little expression on his face? Amusement?  
  
"Stop LOOKING at me like that!" I said indignantly. He shook his head, chuckling.  
  
"Look, chere," he said grinning. "Milord has a very precarious position. He cannot afford to have unknown peoples running around. However young, whatever gender," he added, seeing my skeptical look.  
  
"You really think I'm some sort of, spy, or something?" I said. It was my turn to be amused. "I mean, it COULD be probable. Could be. But it's not. YOU were the one who brought me here. Like I'm really going to be running around two days journey away from Edinburgh if I'm spying on him?" I looked at him for confirmation. He put a hand up impatiently.  
  
"Now, wait," he said. "I am not the one who is holding you. Milord gave orders, and so I will follow them. I'm sure he does not think you are a spy. But you have a strange way of speaking," he said, frowning at me, "and Milord told me to bring anyone who was curious, no matter how far away, no matter age-," I cut him off.  
  
"Yeah, yeah," I said irritably. "So, can we get the interview done, and I be on my way?" I must have looked slightly worried, because Fergus lay a comforting hand on my shoulder.  
  
"Come, chere," he said. "Let us go, and see how soon you can be gone." He held open the door courteously for me. I sighed and went out. This was going nowhere. They'd definitely have the police all over this back home. Or, rather, back in 2002. Fergus closed the door and slipped into the lead. I tried to tune out all the noises coming from behind the closed doors, playing with my dress incessantly.  
  
"Wait!" I said. For some reason, I felt panicky. "My clothes! They're still...still in the room..." He pulled them out, folded up, from his cloak.  
  
"Voila," he said, giving me another grin. I heard a sound from the room next to us, and pushed hastily past him down the stairs. "A bit squeamish, eh, chere?" I thought of something rude to say, but let it go and just shook my head.  
  
"Where are we going?" I asked, changing the subject. He gave me a secretive look.  
  
"You will see," he said, still smiling.  
  
"No, actually she won't," came the clipped Scots accent of Alexander Malcolm. I whirled around to meet his stern blue gaze. He held up a handkerchief. "Sorry, Miss Francine, but ye've got to be blindfolded." I nodded.  
  
"Call me Frankie," I said absently, as he fastened the handkerchief around my head.  
  
"Well, Fran-key," he said, just like Fergus and Mary. "I'll lead ye...down there. If ye trust me, of course." I heard the amusement in his voice. I had the strong urge to say No, I don't trust you take me back where you found me and leave me alone, but I bit my tongue and only nodded. I felt him grasp me by the elbow and start to walk. I let him lead me.  
  
"Your dress fits ye, then?" he inquired.  
  
"It's not MY dress," I said uncontrollably. He sounded amused again.  
  
"Oh?" was the only thing I heard. I started to answer, but was delayed by a sticky substance under my shoes. He led me quickly over this, but I couldn't help noticing a foul smell, one that I recognized but could not put my finger on.  
  
"Eurgh," I remarked. "Uh, yeah. I'm borrowing this one from Mary until she finishes MY dress. I asked her if I could get one made to use without a corset." At this, his hold on my arm jerked. "Whoa! Dude, ouch, pull my arm out of the socket, why dontcha."  
  
"Well, ah, the dress is becoming to ye," he said quickly. I frowned underneath the kerchief. Something I said had upset him. I realized what HE had said, and my cheeks reddened. I reached up with my free hand and pulled up the neckline self-consciously.  
  
"There are stairs here, chere," I heard Fergus say. I felt a strong gust of wind, like a door being opened, and heard muffled sounds of yelling and clanking from somewhere below. I prepared myself, but Malcolm was a good leader. He helped me down a narrow staircase; it was getting colder, and I shivered slightly. The noises were getting louder. Finally, we reached the bottom. By then, I was trembling. It was like a refrigerator down here.  
  
"Here, I brought you a spare cloak," said Fergus, divining that I was a bit chilled. I hugged it close to me. I trod on my dress and almost tumbled to the floor. I said something highly profane.  
  
"Can I please take this damn thing off?" I asked irritably. I was already tugging at it.  
  
"Yes, fine," said Malcolm. He untied it and my eyes were greeted by something obviously illegal. There were men rushing every which way, casks of something, probably alcoholic, lined against the wall, and a woman standing near a tub with a coat pulled around her shoulders. I glanced down. Her legs were bare. I tried not to imagine the reasons why. I looked up at Malcolm, torn between various emotions. He smiled at me, waiting for a comment.  
  
"Who's she?" I asked quietly. Malcolm looked confused for a moment, and I thought perhaps he hadn't heard me. I glanced her way and, following my gaze, he exclaimed something in a language I thought was Gaelic. He rushed over to the woman and started talking to her in a low voice. I looked, confused, at Fergus. He was beaming at the two of them.  
  
"What?" I asked urgently. He glanced at me.  
  
"I think Milord should tell you," he said simply. I scowled at him, but didn't say anything else. My eyes were itching to close. "Would you like to sit somewhere, chere?" asked Fergus suddenly. I jerked slightly, and looked up at him, squinting. "You look a bit tired," he said, shrugging. I nodded. He led me next to a cask, where I curled up and fell asleep peacefully. 


	8. Chapter 8

"Wake up, ma chere," I heard Fergus say urgently. I forced my eyes to open. Fergus helped me up and we walked over to Malcolm and the woman I had seen earlier. She was wearing a dress now, under a cloak similar to mine. She had the curliest hair I'd ever seen, a light brown color. Her skin was extremely white, but not pasty. She was about two inches shorter than me, but that wasn't that short, considering I was five foot eight. But it wasn't her height, nor her hair, that was remarkable. It was her eyes. They were gold, the color of whiskey, or like the eyes of a lioness. Malcolm's eyes scanned behind him to make sure we were coming, then he headed up the stairs.  
  
Fergus led me to the room I had slept in before. "Milord would be obliged if you'd stay here until further arrangements are made," he told me. I raised an eyebrow.  
  
"Tell him I will oblige him," I said sourly, putting sarcastic emphasis on 'oblige', "This cell is better than a gutter." I flopped down on the mattress dramatically. Fergus chuckled and turned to leave.  
  
"Wait!" I said impulsively. My stomach growled. "Where can I get some food?" Fergus looked worried.  
  
"Milord is going to have dinner with.an old friend," he said slowly. "I'm sure they would be happy to have you join them." I thought of Malcolm and that woman. That woman, who was most likely a prostitute. He was taking her out to dinner. Ew. I didn't want a part of it. I shook my head.  
  
"I'd rather not be sociable tonight, Fergus," I replied.  
  
"I'll have something sent up, then, ma chere," he said, and left. I sighed and lay down on the bed. This was more than frustrating. Locked up in a brothel in 1768 while my captor was frolicking with whores and stuffing his face and making me wait. It was torture and, needless to say, I was feeling very bitter toward Alexander Malcolm.  
  
A maid brought me a tray of food a few minutes later, set with what I hoped was clam chowder, biscuits, and a slice of cherry pie. I thanked the girl and set to my meal. It was good, but I wasn't paying much attention. I set the tray on a corner table in the room, undressed down to my shift, and fell asleep again, wanting to get away from everything.  
  
I spent the next morning lazing in my room, not only because I was confined there, but also because when I had woken, Mary's dress was gone. I was brought breakfast and lunch, but remained in bed until Mary herself came in with my new dress. She smiled at my reluctance to get out of bed.  
  
"Dinna be shy, miss," she giggled. I grinned. She went on to point out the aspects of the dress. "If ye were no sae stubborn aboot the corset it'd have been ready earlier," she said scoldingly. "But Master.Malcolm's," she gave me a sidelong glance, "wife," at this I jerked. WIFE? I thought, bewildered. He's married to a whore? Mary continued. ".advised that we take the stays from an old corset and put them in the dress, which did work quite well." She held out the dress. It looked almost identical to Mary's old dress, but a pretty dark blue cloth. She helped me into it, and buttoned up the back. I was dismayed to see that the neckline was lower than I had hoped for. I pulled it up self-consciously, but thanked Mary. She beamed and waved her hand nonchalantly.  
  
"I brought the tray again, if ye'd like to refresh yerself," she made a sweeping gesture toward the make-up tray I had used before. I thanked her again, and she left. I went through the same process as before, being interrupted by Fergus toward the end. He grinned.  
  
"You look lovely ma chere," he persisted. "Now can we leave? We are to meet Milord and Milady for supper." I sighed and stood up. Fergus handed me a cloak and I followed him outside the brothel. I was grateful that there weren't a lot of passerby; even though I didn't know anyone, I didn't want that sort of reputation.  
  
"Where are we going?" I asked Fergus.  
  
"Milord's printshop," he replied. "That is where we are meeting." We walked in silence for a while, until I felt that something was wrong. Something didn't feel right. I turned to mention this odd feeling to Fergus, but he had stopped walking. He was looking at the sky. I stood next to him and tried to see what was so interesting, and my stomach jerked. The sky would have looked only as though the sunset was brilliant today, if it wasn't for the smoke. Black smoke. There was a fire somewhere in Edinburgh, somewhere very nearby. 


	9. Chapter 9

I ran as fast as I could tail Fergus, which wasn't very fast considering the length of my skirt. I finally disregarded all modesty and hiked it up, sprinting the last part of the way to Fergus. I came up alongside of him, barely breathing. He looked down at me, puffing, and shot me a jealous look that running had barely exhilarated my breathing. But then he shot into Carfax Close at the sound of Malcolm's voice. I followed him to a small crowd of people in the close. I looked up at the smoke and fire pouring out of the building and realized that it must be Malcolm's printshop. I could only stare up at the billowing blackness like the rest of the crowd. I got antsy when Malcolm ducked into his shop and didn't come out for a long time, so I tried to busy myself with getting to the front of the crowd. I managed it at the same time as Malcolm and a few other men lurched out of the entrance with what must have been the printing press weighing them down. They set it down and pushed it into the crowd, and turned back to the shop. I stared in fascination and horror as the Town Guard pumped water relentlessly at the flames. But their efforts didn't seem to make any difference. The fire raged on. I turned my head slightly and saw Malcolm's woman clutching another man and staring at a window. I followed her gaze and saw the figure of a man - or was it a boy? - struggling with the window curtain, then disappear. I heard the man's voice shout "Ian!" and then the crowd's gasps as he stumped forward - for he had a wooden leg - intending to go into the shop. The woman leaped after him, then changed course and alerted Malcolm. The firemen of the Town Guard were moderately successful in preventing the man from going back inside, but he was flailing madly trying to get in. Malcolm shouted something to the man and managed to pull him away from the building. He shouted something else, and to everyone's surprise, including mine, dashed up the steps of the adjoining building, a small chocolate shop. Malcolm's woman grabbed the man around the waist awkwardly, but the man was unable to follow Malcolm. They stood together in suspense, waiting for Malcolm to reappear.  
  
But I was barely paying attention. I had been suddenly faced with the realization that I could now make my escape, and probably not be missed. I stood there, frozen with the decision. Malcolm appeared in the window above the chocolate shop, I was still motionless. He made his way to the roof of the printshop, then disappeared. I stared at Malcolm's woman and the man she was holding, trying to think straight. I was still in a panic when Malcolm and another person became visible on the roof. They were both staggering against one another, and it was quite obvious that they wouldn't be able to return through the window above the chocolate shop. As I began unconsciously backing away from the shop, Malcolm yelled, "Rope!" The Town Guard supplied the rope, but the man I had seen before with Malcolm's 'wife' sprang forward and grabbed it. There was a hint of amusement in each man's manner as he tossed the rope perfectly up to Malcolm, and I thought they must have done it many a time before. After a few moments, the two figures on the roof were safely on the pavement below. They were moved away from the building, and Malcolm's wife took the boy's - for it was indeed a young man - head in her lap. I could see his body convulse as he coughed violently. Malcolm leaned against the railing of the chocolate shop, coughing. I stared at him, still backing away slowly, around the crowd. He looked up, still hacking, and caught my eye. There was a question in it. Would I run? 


	10. Chapter 10

(um, long time no update? i got bored. here you go. more later maybe. sorry for those of you who feel strung along...i'm trying to get back into this for practice. i'm in college now, but i'm on break so i have a lot of free time. god, i can't believe i started these things when i was fifteen...anyway, hope you enjoy)

Apparently, Alexander Malcolm could not have cared less about my distress. We locked gazes for less than three seconds and then I was dismissed for the more currently demanding situation. I blinked stupidly for a few moments, then turned on my heel and started walking towards the exit of the close.

My pace slowed as I realized the full weight of my situation. I was a history nerd, not a geography one. I hadn't the slightest idea of where Edinburgh was located in comparison to the hill and the standing stones through which I had so cluelessly traveled to 1768. I winced in remembrance of the four day horse ride Fergus and I had taken. I would not be able to get back to that place on my own. Before I knew it, I had turned myself around and walked back toward the now dissipating crowd. Fergus and the man I didn't know were struggling to help Malcolm up, which was an obviously difficult task. Malcolm's wife was laboring to help the boy they had rescued from the fire. Sighing with reluctance, I marched up to the latter and grabbed the boy's free arm. Malcolm's wife shot me a look of surprise, but I forced a smile and turned to walk. I could feel the gaze of Fergus boring through the side of my head, but I ignored it. After having to swallow my pride and eventually ask for help, I wasn't sure I could stomach his smugness.

"And ye're an idiot," Ian Murray finished. I felt sorry for the young man on the receiving end of this comment, for that was not the only rebuke he had received tonight. In fact, it had been going on for almost an hour and a half, during which Malcolm's wife had been attending to his burns. Adding to the pitifully abashed look on his face from being scolded in front of others, the poor thing's eyebrows had been singed clear off, along with a bit of his hair.

I had finally been informally introduced to the strange man I had seen at the printshop; his name was Ian Murray, and the boy from the fire was his son, Ian Jr. I assumed they were somehow related to Malcolm, but I didn't want to ask for fear of turning the wrath on myself. A few minutes after we returned to Malcolm's room in the brothel, the verbal thrashing began. Blame was thrown around the room, and I was scared to get caught up in it.

Malcolm apparently decided that enough yelling had gone on. "Ian, man," he said soothingly. "I think it's time ye let the boy have a say for himself, aye?" The older Murray looked as though that was the last thing he wanted to do, but after a moment, he grunted approval.

"Right then," said Malcolm, rubbing his nose thoughtfully. "How - " He stopped mid-sentence and rounded on me. I nearly spilled my cup of water in surprise. He narrowed his eyes shrewdly.

"Fergus," he commanded. Said person leaped up and clasped Malcolm on the shoulder. I frowned as they exchanged a few words in another language. _I knew that jerk was French_, I thought rudely. Fergus turned to me.

"Come with me, Frankie," he said firmly. "Ye look to be famished." Actually, I wasn't hungry at all; I had been so preoccupied with my near future that I couldn't think of food. But I didn't say this. I just nodded and took the arm Fergus had offered me. Before walking through the door, I turned suddenly, remembering young Ian's current condition.

"You should put water on his burns," I announced, not addressing anyone. "For about thirty seconds. If it hurts, put a cool towel on it. Not a wet one. And, um, I don't know if you have aloe vera plants here, but that heals it faster too." My voice sounded too loud, and I wished I hadn't spoken. Young Ian was looking at me as though seeing me for the first time, and Malcolm's wife was staring at me with an alarming look on her face. I cleared my throat awkwardly, and left the room in a rush, face flaming.

Fergus escorted me back to the room I had previously slept in. Upon entering, I flung myself on the bed and buried my face in the pillows. I heard a scrape on the floor as a chair was dragged across it. Fergus sat to my right, trying to soothe me with insignificant calming murmurs. After a while, I flopped over and took a deep breath.

"Fergus, I need you to take me back where you found me," I said in a rush. He raised an eyebrow, and I sighed. "I know, I know. Nevermind." I rolled back over with a groan. There was a pause, and I heard Fergus get up and leave. I felt like I was on death row.

I had never been so uncomfortable in my life. I found myself envying young Ian, sitting in the corner with what was probably a cup of something alcoholic and looking relieved. I, however, was standing in the middle of the room with my hands clasped together, waiting for someone to do something. _Anything_. Finally, Malcolm stood up, and I immediately regretted wishing for action. The man looked as though he was about six foot four, maybe taller, and it was more than disconcerting to have him stand up and walk towards me. He stopped a few feet short and surveyed me for a moment. Then, out of nowhere, he spoke.

"I'd like to express my apologies fer givin' ye a false name, previously," he said politely. My eyes widened in confusion, but he ignored it. "And also, for failin' to introduce ye properly. This," he motioned to the burned boy in the corner and the man towering over him, "is my nephew, Ian Murray, and his father, Ian senior." I ducked my head to both of them. "And this," he went on, "is my wife, Claire." I nodded to her as well. So it _was_ his wife, then. Before he could continue, I decided to make my case.

"My name is Francine Carolyn Moore," I said quickly. "But no one calls me that, it's Frankie. I'm fifteen years old, and I'm not whatever you think I am. I just want to get home. Please – " But Malcolm put a hand up to stop me.

"I dinna think ye're anythin'," he said shortly. "My wife, however, has a slight inclination, and would like to talk to ye before we help ye." I must have brightened at the word 'help', because Malcolm gave me a small smile before motioning to Claire. She stood up and walked over to me, looking thoughtful. She peered at me.

"Frankie, I'd like propose a few things," she said airily. "I'm just going to be out with them, and you tell me whatever you think. Sound alright?" I smiled blandly. _What the hell did she mean by that?_

"Do you know anyone by the name of," Claire paused briefly, then narrowed her eyes. "Winston Churchill?" I gawked at her as the blood drained from my face. I thought I was going to faint. A thousand things ran through my head and I sat on the floor, hard, breathing heavily. Claire let out an exclamation, then moved to help me back up. I flinched and crawled backward until I hit the wall. I scrambled up and put a hand out.

"Stay away," I gasped. "Just…don't touch me." My outstretched hand started to shake. With anger.

"Is this some kind of…joke?" I seethed. I had never felt such fury. "Is this like, a hidden camera show or something?" Claire started to say something, but I didn't wait for an answer. "You people are sick," I said with disgust, and marched toward the door. To my immediate revulsion, Fergus grabbed my wrist to prevent my exit. I tried to yank it away, to no avail.

"_LET ME GO!_" I bellowed, throwing a punch with my free fist. Fergus grabbed a hold of that one too, and twirled me comically into an inescapable position. This only infuriated me further.

"This isn't a game, dear," said Claire soothingly. She put a hand on my shoulder, and I thought I would cry. "You really are in 1768. When you're _from_, I don't know, but I came from 1968. I assume you're from around there. I just did that to make sure, I didn't mean to upset you." I looked at her, teary-eyed, and I knew she was being sincere. I let my shoulders slump.

"That's it. I'm going crazy," I muttered. Claire smiled.

"You wish," she said sympathetically.


End file.
